Em Cal (Re-Edited)
by OsirisBlue
Summary: In the criminal underworld of Titan City, a former hit man comes out of retirement for one more job and teams up with an incompetent thief to stop the shipment of a new designer drug that's cutting into his former boss's profits. Rated T for strong language. Leave feedback.
1. Chapter 1

**I wrote this fan fiction in late 2009. I always envisioned what the Undertaker, a man who is off the charts in the Intimidation Factor, would be as a mob hit man. A character not unlike the ones from neo-noir films such as Sin City. So I decided to create this. I originally posted this when I opened up this account in 2012. I made the mistake of taking the whole story and putting it as one chapter. And there were one too many grammatical errors, and lack of detailing. But I'm glad to present to you. Em Cal revised and edited. Enjoy.**

 **The Introduction**

 _Welcome to Titan City, population 3,573,482 and counting. It is home to Sapphire Palace, the Renegade Center, the Cobalt River, and the beloved four time Super Bowl champs, the Titan City Assassins. While it is a city of opulence and prosperity, it is also a city where the criminals run things, a city where the police are as corrupt as a New Jersey politician, a city whose motto is, "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here."_

 _Aptly nicknamed "The Jungle", Titan City plays host to humans of the blackest dye; Mobsters, gang bangers, thieves, hookers, and varieties of scum ran rampant in the city. Tourists avoid it like a bum avoids soap and water. Quite frankly, who would want to visit a city where your car would get stolen, the moment you saw the 'Welcome to Titan City' sign?_

 _Through the miasma of fear and hopelessness, there is a hero in Titan City. No, he's not your typical goody two shoes, caped crusading, save the day supernatural hero, but he's a hero nonetheless. This is the story of the one they call Em Cal.._

It was approaching midnight. 19 year-old Gabriel Peters, cashier of the Stop N Plunder convenience store, was mopping up the last of the Cherry Bomb Freez-E that some brat had spilled moments earlier. Working the nightshift in a place like the Jungle for minimum wage wasn't exactly what he called a glamorous life, but the bills had to be paid.

Gabriel sat back behind the cash register and resumed reading _Car Craft_ magazine. Before he could fully get into it, there was a soft tingling of bells ad the door opened, and in walked the people Gabriel didn't want to see.

Four men, in their early twenties, dressed like stand-ins from the movie, _The Road Warrior,_ stood in the doorway. Their leader, a tall scraggy guy with a low forehead, a shark snout like nose, dull blue eyes, and jet black hair done in liberty spikes, walked over to the counter, grinning, showing crooked yellow teeth.

"Hey there, Gaby boy," he said. He had a tenor's voice. "It's time for our weekly pay, polka dot face."

"G-go away, Scarecrow," said Gabriel, "why do you have to keep hitting this store up? There's plenty of other stores in this city you can hit up."

Peals of laughter rang through the store

"Why do we keep hitting this store up he asks," said Scarecrow. "Three reasons; One, because we want to! ; Two, because you're a pussy, and three because any store that is stupid enough to name itself Stop and Plunder, is asking for it right there. But enough of the chit chat, Gaby, you know the drill, hand over the money and we leave, quietly."

"N-no!" said Gabriel. "I'm sick of you coming in here week after week, robbing the place! Find someone else who'll stand aside and let you rob them, because I'm not anymore."

A dark shadow crept upon Scarecrow's face before splitting into a smile that was more dangerous than a verbal threat.

'Alright," said Scarecrow, his voice in a quiet tone that was loud with a promise of destruction. Since you don't want to cooperate, we're going to use you for target practice.

Before Gabriel could react, Scarecrow jumped over the counter and grabbed Gabriel in a chokehold. Gabriel gasped, trying to stomp on Scarecrow's foot, but Scarecrow's hold was too strong. Scarecrow ripped open Gabriel's shirt, took a red Sharpie and drew a darts board on his chest and stomach.

"Now," he said to his comrades, "We're going to throw shit at him until he gives us the money. Get the targets ranging from his chest and stomach. Whoever hits him right in the gut gets 100 points. Commence!"

Scarecrow's cronies gathered up whatever they could get and chucked things at Gabriel, ranging from soda cans to batteries. Scarecrow laughed a harsh grating laugh as a large pepperoni stick hit Gabriel in the face. Gabriel let out squeals of pain.

"Bulls eye!" shouted Scarecrow's friend, a muscle bound guy with a teal Mohawk, after he threw a can of Chef Boyardee at Gabriel's stomach with full force, leaving a rapidly developing bruise.

"Enough," said Scarecrow, releasing Gabriel, who doubled over in pain. "Gaby boy, I'm going to ask you nicely. Pretty please with a cherry and sprinkles on top, will you give us the fucking money or we kick your teeth in?"

Gabriel responded by straightening up and spitting in Scarecrow's face, defiance etched firmly in every feature of his freckled face. Stunned silence filled the place. It was broken by a tiny _click_ as the blade of Scarecrow's knife was released by the press of the button, Scarecrow's eyes flashing dangerously.

"Alright," said Scarecrow. "Have it your way then."

Scarecrow pounced on Gabriel. The knife was inches away from impaling Gabriel's jugular when a deep drawling voice said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you, asshole."

Scarecrow and his cronies all turned around and gaped at the sight. Standing in the doorway was a very tall, stalwart of a man. He had sweeping auburn hair, streaked with gray, a goatee, and a stoic look etched on his rugged features. His eyes were the color of pale emeralds and were colder than an Alaskan blizzard.

"Where'd you come from?" Scarecrow asked, "a convention for western movie fans?"

"Never mind where I came from," said the large stranger, his voice as cold as his eyes, "but I'll tell you where you're going to be, and that's in a tightly concealed casket under six feet of tightly packed earth if you don't let go of that boy."

Scarecrow jumped over the counter once more, his eyes narrowed.

"Someone's got a death wish, he said to his cronies. "Well you're in luck, Van Helsing, your wish is about to come true."

The stranger let out a derisive laugh.

"From the looks of it, you couldn't knock a sick whore off of a shit pot," he said. "But if you're feeling froggy, Sid Not So Vicious, then jump."

"My pleasure," said Scarecrow lunging at the stranger with the knife.

The stranger caught Scarecrow's arm that was holding the knife, and head butted Scarecrow. Then, grabbing him by his jacket, threw him into the rack of Cheetos. One of his cronies, a fat oily haired man, with multiple piercings, bellowed like a wild bull and charged at the stranger, but was met with a stiff knee to the face. The other two ganged up on the stranger, punching every part available. For a moment, they looked as if they had the upper hand against the stranger, until he took them by the back of their necks and slammed their heads on the counter so hard, that the counter cracked. Then he took one of them and belted him with an uppercut that lifted him off of his feet. He landed on the floor, unconscious.

Scarecrow staggered toward the stranger, blade in his hand once again. The stranger quickly grabbed a pitcher of hot steaming coffee and shattered it on Scarecrow's head busting him up pretty nice. Scarecrow fell next to his unconscious comrade.

The stranger wrapped a large hand around the fourth cronies' throat, lifted him up in the air, and hurled him into the store windows. Glass shattered everywhere as the poor bastard went through the window. He didn't get back up.

The stranger heard a groan. Wheeling around, he saw Pierceface crawling to the door, dotting the floor with his blood splashing on the floor. The stranger walked over to him and pulled out of his leather duster, a Ruger Redhawk .44 aimed the gun at the back of Pierceface's legs and said, "Suck on lead, fat fuck."

There were two deafening noises as the stranger blew off the both of Pierceface's kneecaps. Pierceface howled in excruciating pain. Apathetic to the carnage he had caused, the stranger walked over the bodies and gathered up several , who had hitherto remained silent throughout the whole tumble, said, "Thanks, mister,"

"Don't mention it, kid," he said coming back to the counter, grabbing a pack of Winstons, before making his way to the door, stepping on Pierceface as he went.

"Wait, sir, " Gabriel said, "aren't you going to pay for those things?"

The stranger turned around to face Gabriel, with that glacial viridescent gaze. Gabriel felt a sense of foreboding.

"Right," he said.

He took out a wad of cash from his pocket and threw a few bills on the counter.

"Keep the change," he muttered.

As he walked out, Gabriel shouted, "Thanks for choosing Stop & Plunder!"

The stranger mounted his bike, a 2006 Harley V-Rod chopper that was painted black pearl with ghost flames on it. It felt good to bust some ass. The malicious joy he felt when he heard that fat bastard's screams after he blew his knees away was exactly what he'd been wanting. None of those would be crooks knew who he was. Had they known who he was, they'd have crumbled like cheap store brand cookies and ran with their tails between their legs.

To the underworld, he was known as Em Cal. Just the name alone struck fear in even the most bravest of men. Ruthless, cold hearted and stolid, Em Cal worked as a hit man for the McMahon Crime Syndicate, one of the most notorious Irish-American mob families in the metropolis. Whenever some other foolish gang threatened the MCS or some restaurant wasn't paying their protection money, the boss, V.K. McMahon, always sent his most vicious dog, Em Cal to take care of things for him. And Em Cal always got the job done.

Throughout the course of his career, a total of one hundred and sixty-two people died by Em Cal's hand. He was proud of the violent and bloody legacy that he had created. Try as other hit men might, there never be another as sadistic and brutal as Em Cal.

Em Cal had retired from life of crime a year ago. He had suffered a big loss that diminished his passion for the underworld life. He had grew bored with the whole gig. It wasn't much of a challenge like it was when he was young.

Em Cal made a right turn on Starkweather Street. He parked the V-Rod in front of a brown bricked six story apartment building and went inside. He took the stairs; He did not like elevators. He felt that it was a contraption invented for the fat and the lazy.

He finally reached his door, which had 4B on it. He reached inside the chest pocket of his duster and pulled out his key.

His apartment was moderate with Sicilian cream ceramic floor tiles, walls that were painted a Tuscany gold, on which posters of noir film and Mafia films hung. He had windows that were floor to ceiling, giving off a nice view of the Titan City skyline.

Em Cal hung his duster on the coat rack and placed his .44 back into the cigar box he hid it in. Then he went into his liquor cabinet and sank shots of Jack Daniels chased with a couple of beers. Around two o'clock, he went through his pre-bed rituals; smoking 5 cigarettes, doing four hundred reps with the barbells and taking a long hot shower.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Em Cal woke up to the sound of gun shots and police sirens, but he was too used to this to be concerned. He ate a quick breakfast of leftover pizza, washed down with Cherry 7-Up, before feeding his python, Reaper. He was in the middle of watching Reaper strangle the poor defenseless rat when there was a knock at the door. Wondering who it could be that early in the morning, Em Cal answered.

A man in his early 60s stood at Em Cal's door. He was about 6 foot 2 with salt and pepper covered hair, an aqualine nose, and a cleft chin. Under the Hugo Boss suit that he wore was a body that was the result of hours spent at the gym.

"V.K. McMahon, " Em Cal said slightly surprised. "What brings you here to dampen my doorstep?"

"Em Cal," said McMahon, in a voice that would befit a company spokesperson and not the # 1 crime boss in Titan City. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"You ain't no friend of mine, McMahon," said Em Cal, the temperature dropping 20 degrees with the cold honesty in his voice. "You are merely a former employer."

"Same Em Cal," said McMahon with a broad grin that would make the Kool-Aid pitcher jealous. "Always bitingly hostile. Alright, I'll get to the point, may I come in?"

Em Cal opened the door wider. McMahon strutted in and sat down on Em Cal's sectioned sofa.

"I guess you'll be wanting a drink, McMahon?" Em Cal asked

"Yes, a vodka martini, shaken on the rocks, triple olives, please," said McMahon.

Em Cal raised his eyebrows.

"Right, I'll get some _gin_ on the rocks." he said, heading to his liquor cabinet. He returned with two glasses, ice, and a bottle of Tanqueray Rangpur.

"You can pour it yourself," he said as he sat himself on the leather recliner chair he often occupied.

Em Cal watched the old man pour himself a generous measure of gin. He sank it in one gulp and smacked his lips in appreciation.

"That hit the spot," he said. "This has a nice lime taste to it, you have a fine taste in liquor, Em Cal, "

"I believe I said something about getting to the point, McMahon," said Em Cal.

"Oh yeah, sorry about that," said McMahon, shaking back his sleeve, showing off the expensive stainless steel Cosmograph Rolex. "The reason why I showed up unexpectedly is because I have a problem at my hands and you're the only man competent enough to free me of this burdensome problem."

"Incase you've forgotten, McMahon," Em Cal started, "I'm retired, you know what that means, right? It means 'no longer working', 'withdrawn from business," which means I don't have to do a damn thing for you. Now show yourself to the other side of my door."

But McMahon didn't get up to leave.

"I've known you for nearly nineteen years, Em Cal," said McMahon, "You can't possibly sit here and say that you like the way things are going for you right now, with no cash flowing in and not really doing anything productive."

"I am not like the rest of the world, whose main concerns are monetary gain," said Em Cal in the usual cold tone. "I do not waste my time worrying about such mundane bullshit. And I believe that after years of working for you, I deserve a nice quiet life."

"Yes, one cannot argue with that, after all you've done for me," said McMahon. "But if I know you, I'll know that the bloodthirsty, trigger happy psychopath inside you still craves some action. The beast inside you is hungry, I know it is. I've got something that'll satisfy that beast's appetite. What do you say, Em Cal?"

As McMahon poured himself another glass of gin, Em Cal thought about what the man had said. Except for taking out those four punks last night, things were very dull. As much as he hated to admit it, McMahon was right; just a tiny part of him wanted violence that his soul so desperately fiends for.

"Alright," Em Cal said, "I'm in."

"That's the answer I was looking for," said McMahon, happily sinking the glass of gin. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

"Indeed," Em Cal said, helping himself, this time, to some gin. "What's the problem?"

"Well, as you know, they call this city 'The Jungle'," said McMahon, "and rightfully so; This city fraught with a bunch of wild animals. But out of all of those animals, I think it's only appropriate that I'm the most preeminent animal in the Jungle; The lion. That's right, I'm the King of the Jungle, the Alpha male. And my men are my pride. Of course, there's always another lion who thinks he's dominant enough to knock me off of my perch, which is the case now.

"There's a new high on the street, goes by the name of theTriple Effect, a combination of speed, ecstasy and LSD. Some asshole's distributing it on my streets. Whoever it is, they're cutting into my profits. Since Triple Effect came into existence, my business has dropped by 7 percent. That's as good as 100%, which is not acceptable. This can't continue to happen."

"So, what do you want me to do, McMahon?" asked Em Cal

A maniacal leer came across the old man's face.

"I want you to find the source," he said, his voice coming out in a gravelly whisper. "Find out whose distributing this Triple Effect crap, find out where the Triple Effect's coming from, and you find the people whose responsible for creating the Triple Effect, and when you do, kill them! You hear me? I'm talking _expunction!_ Total annihilation! You've got my clearance, Em Cal"

An evil glint flashed in Em Cal's piercing cold green eyes.

"You've got it McMahon," he said, sinking his glass. "I tell ya what, after I'm done, I'll even send you pictures of the bodies."

"Yes, you do that," said McMahon standing up. "Do this for me and your payoff will be one with a plethora of zeros."

Em Cal stood up also, shaking McMahon's hand.

"Nice doing business again, McMahon," he said

McMahon nodded a salute to Em Cal and swaggered out of the apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

Em Cal hopped off of the V-Rod and walked up the steps on a rather shabby looking two story house. If he was going to take on this hydra-headed task, he would need someone who was good with drug contacts.

A year ago, three robbers attempted to jack Em Cal in an alleyway after seeing him come out of a casino with a suitcase. After brutally killing two of them, Em Cal stuck the .460 S&W to the third one's head, a nanosecond away from pulling the trigger. The guy pathetically pleaded for his life, saying he would do anything to stay alive, telling Em Cal that he was good with rumors, that he could require any kind of information.

Seeing that he could be useful to him, Em Cal let him live, only on the condition that he gave info to him and nobody else. The boy, not happy with the decision, but thankful for being alive, agreed.

Em Cal rung the doorbell once. A minute later, a pretty woman answered the door. She was tall and willowy, with a pretty pale face and dark brown almond shaped eyes. Her hair shortly cut and dyed white blonde.

"Hey, Angela," said Em Cal. "Is your brother in?"

"Unfortunately," said Angela. She had a slight touch of New Jersey in her voice. "Then again, when isn't he here?"

Em Cal, successfully managing not to laugh said, "I need to talk to him."

Angela nodded and let him in. Having been there before. Em Cal made a right turn and entered, heading to the second door on the left. Without knocking, Em Cal went in.

The room was small and reeked of greasy burgers, marijuana, and dirty underwear. There were posters of naked women and cannabis leaves on the wall. Sleeping on a piece of filthy mattress in the middle of the floor was S.D.

S.D. was the opposite of his sister. He was short and stringy with dusky skin, a lunular chin, dark brown eyes and curly black hair that he often cut close to his head. The most prominent thing about him was his ears. They were large and stuck way out, like a chihuahua's.

Walking over the litter of White Castle boxes and dirty clothes, Em Cal kneeled down and shook S.D.

"Hey, boy, wake your sorry ass up," said Em Cal. "I got some work for you."

S.D. groaned and opened one eye.

"Em Cal," he mumbled. "Long time no see. What're ya doin' here?"

For someone with ears as big as yours, you sure do have a hearing problem," snapped Em Cal. "Didn't I just tell you that I've got some work for you?"

"Man, give me a chance to wake up properly at least," said S.D., sitting up. "I haven't even washed my ass yet."

Em Cal took a pitcher of water from off a nearby dresser and threw it on S.D., dousing him head to toe. S.D. sputtered and swore.

"There's your goddamn shower," said Em Cal. "Get dressed! Don't make me say it again, boy."

Mumbling to himself, S.D. got up and gathered clothes from off of the floor. Em Cal watched in disgust as he put on a dingy wrinkled white T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers so dirty, it was impossible to tell which color they were.

"Alright, Em Cal," he said, slipping a black ski cap on his head. "What work you talkin' about?"

"What do you know about a drug called Triple Effect?" Em Cal asked

"It depends," said S.D. with a flouting smile. "What's in it for me?"

Before S.D. knew it, he was being slammed against the wall, Em Cal's large hand squeezing his trachea.

"Now you listen to me, you filthy ratty piece of shit!" Em Cal snarled, his eyes lighting up with a luminescent rage that anteceded death, "I'll tell you what's in it for you. You get to live! You ask what's in it for you again and I'll finish the job I started in that fucking alleyway, do I make myself clear, boy?"

S.D. didn't answer. He was gasping for breath, his face turning purple, and his pupils the size of microdots. Em Cal took out a .44 magnum Desert Eagle and pressed it against S.D.'s temple.

"I _said_ do I make myself clear?"

"Like water," S.D. croaked

Em Cal released S.D. who slid to the floor, massaging his throat.

"Now tell me what you know about Triple Effect," Em Cal said

"Well, it's a new drug," said S.D., his face still a little red. "They come in either forms of pill or powder. I don't know what its effects are, because I don't take them, but I've been told it puts you in a nice psychadelic trance. It's a designer drug, so it's real popular at rave parties."

" Do you know who's been distributing them?" Em Cal asked.

S.D. shook his head.

"Not yet, at least," he said. But I do know this. There's this drug dealer, named Amarico Villapando, he owns a club that he uses as a front, called The Violet Swan."

"Violet Swan," Em Cal repeated. "That club on Alig Boulevard."

"Yes, that's the one, " S.D. said. "Anyways, Amarico's been purchasing a shit load of Triple Effect. Thing is, I don't know who he's buying them from."

"Well, we're going to pay this Amarico Villapando a little visit," said Em Cal. "Shake some answers out of him.

S.D. didn't seemed too thrilled about the idea, but not wanting to have his brains plastered on the already stained walls, he said, "Alright."

"You got some heat, boy?" Em Cal asked

S.D. shook his head

"All I have are trench knifes and hunting knives." he said. "I steal, I don't kill."

Em Cal snorted

"Well, I guess that'll have to do," he said finally. "But I want you to start strapping yourself up from now on after this. Gather up some knives and let's go."

"Wait, Cal, " S.D. said. "Before we do anything, I need a change of underwear."


	4. Chapter 4

"This is it here," said S.D., quietly, pointing at a flamboyant looking building with a large sign or a neon pink swan. "I'll ask for Amarico."

Both men approached a couple of bouncers guarding the door. Em Cal sized up the both of them. One was fat and bald with beady blue eyes. The other was tall and muscular with enough grease in his hair to fry chicken. He could take them, if it came to that.

"Hey, Leo, look who it is," said the fat bald bouncer, "what're you doin' here, S.D.? Me and Zilla almost didn't recognize you without your milk mustache."

"Whatever, King Kong Bundy," said S.D. "Amarico in tonight?"

"Yeah, he's in tonight," said Zilla. "What do you want with him?"

"That's our business," Em Cal said coldly.

Zilla looked at Em Cal, his eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Who're you, pal?" he asked

"Keep wasting my time, and you'll find out soon enough, bitch," said Em Cal, his face an inch away from Zilla's. There was a violent gleam in his eye, which was usually a red flag for his enemies.

Zilla and Em Cal scowled at each other for a long time. One finally backed down, and it wasn't Em Cal.

"Okay," muttered Zilla resentfully. "We'll take you to Amarico's office."

Inside the Violet Swan was large and circular with an overwhelming plethora of strobe lights, LED lightings, and haze machines. Em Cal looked around. Most of the crowd was dressed up in bizarre anarcho-punk/new wave get ups. They were either touch dancing to the beat of hardcore techno music or getting doped up. It was a freak show.

Em Cal and S.D. followed Leo and Zilla up a spiral case. They were lead to a cherry door, on which Leo knocked.

"Enter," said a man's feminized Spanish accented voice.

"All four men walked inside the room. Sitting in a lounge chair was Amarico Villapando.

Amarico was a small and slight man. He had deeply tanned skin, perfectly arched eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. His gel spiked hair was dyed a medium purple, which clashed horribly with the light blue silk shirt that he wore.

"S.D. and this guy requested to see you, boss," said Leo.

"Did they?" Amarico said, getting up and strolling over to where Em Cal was standing. " _Ay dios mio_ , S.D., who is this big rugged Adonis?"

"He's an associate of mine," said S.D., looking down at the floor.

"Indeed?" asked Amarico. "Well, he looks _muy fuerte_. And he smells _delicioso._ How would you like to be my bear, _mijo_?"

"No thanks, I'll pass," said Em Cal acidly. "Look, the reason why I'm here is because I'm looking for a real good high and heroin nor cocaine just ain't gonna cut it for me. S.D. tells me you're the man to know."

"Maybe I am," said Amarico, his hands on the front of Em Cal's duster, "but why don't we discuss business later and discuss pleasure now?"

Em Cal pushed Amarico's hands away. He wanted to take the 1911 from his waist and empty the whole clip into Amarico. But he knew he mustn't, not just yet anyway. He played it cool and told himself to wait until Amarico gave him what he wanted.

"Listen, I don't have time for the little sexual games," Em Cal said. "Just give me something that's going that's going to blow my mind."

"But darling, _I_ can blow your mind away," said Amarico. "I am like a drug; Once I work my ardent Latino charm on a man, it's difficult to resist me. S.D. knows, don't you sugar?."

Leo and Zilla snickered. Em Cal looked at S.D., whose faced reddened in embarrassment.

"N-n-no I don't," he sputtered. "Don't listen to him, he's just full of shit!"

" _Mierda_?" said Amarico with a raised eyebrow. "I think not. Did you forget about last week already?"

"I'm warning you, 'Rico, _callate_ ," said S.D. in a low voice.

"It was S.D., Leo, Zilla and Yours Truly," said Amarico to Em Cal "He was short on money for the sour diesel I gave him. After several glasses of champagne, he was willing to do anything to pay off his debt..."

"I'm telling you now, Rico, shut your fucking mouth!" shouted S.D. His facial expressions were usually of a vague clueless one, but not this time. His veins were bulging dangerously in his forehead, and rage was dancing in those usually far out eyes.

"Ooh, look at you, so pissed off," said Amarico, his hands on S.D.'s chest. "You're so sexy when you're angry. Maybe some of my special tricks will help you relax like la-"

"Say another word, Rico!" snarled S.D., pulling out a combat knife. "I _dare_ you. Say one more word and I'll cut you up like Japanese cuisine!"

Realizing S.D. could blow the whole thing, Em Cal held back Leo and Zilla, who started toward S.D. and said, "Relax, guys, he's not going to do a goddamn thing. S.D., don't be stupid. Put the knife away and calm your ass down. _Now_!"

Hesitantly, S.D. put the knife away. He continued to glower at Amarico, who taunted him by blowing kisses at him.

"Now, Villapando, I'm getting impatient here." said Em Cal. "It's nearly midnight, and I'm not high. Are you the man who's got the good shit?"

"Well, fortunately for you, _chico grande_ , I have just scored a shipment of the latest goods," said Amarico. "It's called Triple Effect. Real potent stuff. It's been bringing in loads and loads of money too."

"You almost have me sold, Villapando," said Em Cal. "Let me see the product."

Amarico pulled out a cylinder like thing, and gave it to Em Cal, who opened it. There were hundreds of multi-colored capsules inside.

"Jackpot," said Em Cal. "Exactly what I wanted to see. How much will it cost?"

"For that whole cylinder, it's a thousand dollars,"

Em Cal made like he was reaching into his pocket. Then, he struck Amarico in the jaw with a quick forceful jab. Amarico crumbled to the floor with a dull thud. Leo and Zilla let out roars of rage and started toward Em Cal. Em Cal locked up with Zilla, while S.D went after Leo.

After 3 minutes of fighting around the room, knocking things over, Em Cal grabbed Zilla's head by the mouth and back of the head and jerked violently .Zilla fell to the floor motionless. Wiping blood from his nose and mouth, Em Cal watched S.D., stab Leo in the stomach repeatedly. Leo spat up blood, before collapsing on the floor, dead. Holding his bruised ribs, S.D. wiped the blood off of the knife and put it back in his pocket. His right eye was swollen, as well as his lip. But he was pale and looked almost shell-shocked.

"I killed him," he said, his voice unnaturally high pitched. "I never killed anybody before. Oh shit, man."

"C'mon, boy," said Em Cal his voice like a steel trap, snapping S.D. out of it, "make yourself useful and find something to tie this asshole up."

As Em Cal hoisted up Amarico, S.D. went into Amarico's cherry wood desk and got out a strip of leather thongs. As he handed them to Em Cal, he looked at S.D. and said. "You sure do know your way around this office."

S.D.'s ears reddened slightly, but he helped Em Cal tie up Amarico.

"He's going to be out for a few more minutes," said Em Cal, lighting up a Winston, "We're going to wait until he regains consciousness."

"Hey Cal," S.D. started, "you didn't uh- believe that story Amarico told you, did you?"

Em Cal dragged on his Winston and muttered. "I don't really judge others on their alternative lifestyles. Whatever happened between you and him, keep it to yourself. I'd rather not know."

Amarico's eyes finally fluttered open. He tried to move, but then realized that he was fettered to the chair.

"What's all of this for?" Amarico asked. "Darling if you two wanted to play rough, all you had to do was say so."

"I'm glad you find this situation amusing Villapando," said Em Cal harshly. "Because you fucked up real bad tonight. You gave me enough evidence to take you out!"

"I knew it," said Amarico, disdain wrinkling his features. "You're an undercover narc."

"Nah," said Em Cal, "but what I am is a worst nightmare come true for you, Amarico Villapando. Tell him who I am, S.D."

"This is Em Cal, Amarico," said S.D. with a hint of glee in his voice. "I feel sorry for you, man, he's one bad mother fucker!"

"A combination of comprehension and fear came across Amarico's face.

"Em Cal?" he said, "as in Em Cal, the _hit man_?"

"Why yes, that'd be me," said Em Cal leering.

"But, I thought you were retired," said Amarico, his voice quivering with fear.

"So sorry to contradict," said Em Cal pulling out a chrome M1911 with a silencer. Amarico's forehead glistened with sweat.

"Jesus Christ, don't kill me," he pleaded " _Por favor_ , Em Cal, have mercy, I don't want to die, I have too much to live for."

"Then you're going to do some talking for me," said Em Cal. "And depending on what kind of information you give, I just might spare you your life. So hear me and hear me good. Speak but what may benefit you and others."

" _Gracias_ , Em Cal," said Amarico. "What is it that you want to know?"

Em Cal, picked up the cylinder full of Triple Effect pills that he had dropped while fighting Zilla.

"We want to know who's supplying you with this," he said, "C'mon, Amarico, names, I want them!"

Amarico's face fell.

"If I tell you, I'm a dead man." he said

Em Cal made an impatient noise and slapped Amarico in the head with the M1911, creating a huge gash on the side of his head.

"Now, S.D., either Amarico is a complete and utter dumbass, or he really can't comprehend just how serious this predicament he's in is!" he snarled. "You say you're a dead man if you tell me? Well I say you're a dead man if you _don't_ tell me, asshole."

He pointed the M1911 at Amarico and pulled back on the hammer.

"Okay, okay, I'll talk!" said Amarico desperately. "A couple of months ago, my club was getting ready to go under. I couldn't make enough money to keep it open. As a last ditch effort, I went to the Saracinos for a loan. They agreed to give me the loan if only in return, I helped them distribute the Triple Effect pills and pay off the loan I made with the money I made from selling it. We've been partners every since. That's the truth, Em Cal, I swear to you."

Em Cal lowered the gun, his face impassive. He didn't need to ask Amarico who the Saracinos were. He was already too familiar with the name.

"Okay, I believe you, " Em Cal said. "But unfortunately for you, you're still going to die."

Outrage and terror widened Amarico's eyes.

"You said you wouldn't kill me if I talked!" he said, his voice higher than usual.

A dark leer came across Em Cal's face.

"You should know better than to trust the word of a man who makes a living off of killing people," he said. " _Adios_ , Villapando, say hello to Satan for me,"

"As Amarico shouted, "NO!" Em Cal fired the M1911 eight times. Amarico resembled a wiffle ball after Em Cal got through with him.

"Had to kill him," he said to S.D. "Couldn't risk him blabbing back to the Saracinos."

A year ago, there was a war between the McMahon Syndicate and the Saracino family. It was very ugly. Back and forth, businesses were getting blown up, people from both sides were getting killed. After eight months of feuding, the McMahon Syndicate finally won. It was sheer and pure luck that Em Cal happened to be meeting someone right across the street from a restaurant that the Don, Frankie Saracino happened to be in. Em Cal went inside the restaurant and killed him. After Frankie died, the Saracino's influence deteriorated while the McMahons' increased. The last Em Cal had heard, Frankie's son, Johnny was running things, but word on the street was that he didn't have the savvy nor the respect his pop had.

"Search through his pockets," Em Cal told S.D.

S.D. looked at Em Cal as if he asked him to give him leg and arm.

"What?" snapped Em Cal, "you've been through someone's pockets numerous times, what's the problem now?"

"He's dead, man!" S.D. claimed. "I'm not going through a dead man's pockets."

"Either you go through his pockets or I'll cap your ass next!" Em Cal growled, "Do what I say, boy!"

"Yes'r, sir Em Cal sir," said S.D. in a mock Southern black accent. "You be wantin' me to shine your shoes next Massa?"

After S.D. finished searching through Amarico's pockets, he found numerous stacks of one hundred dollar bills, more Triple Effect pills, and a cell phone. S.D. pocketed the money while Em Cal searched through Amarico's contacts. Sure enough, Johnny Saracino's number was in the Top 5.

"Bingo," said Em Cal. "Keep this phone, kid. Do you know how to sound like Amarico?"

"Of course, _mijo_ ," said S.D. in a plausible imitation of Amarico's voice.

"Good, good," said Em Cal. "If Johnny Saracino calls, let me know. Until then-"

He pulled out his own cell phone and took a picture of Amarico's body.

"I'm sending this to VK McMahon and tell him I got a lead. Meanwhile, let's get the hell out of here."

Both men went back downstairs. Nobody paid attention to them as the exited the service door. Entering the alley, S.D. asked, "What now, Cal?"

"We're going into Phase 2," said Em Cal. "It might get a little more dangerous from this point forward, so it's best you get some steel. I'll tell you what. Go to a placed called D.O.A., it's on the corner of Hickock and Cassidy. The guy who owns the place is called Dead Eye Dave. Tell him Em Cal sent you. Get yourself a gun or two."

"Alright, sure thing," said S.D. "Good looking out."

"And another thing, boy," said Em Cal firmly. You smell like a sandwich with extra onions and mustard. As of now, showering is mandatory. If you want to continue to work with me, you will not continue to look like Pig Pen. So, start buying some new clothes, and throw all of the old and filthy ones away."

"You're worse than my sister, dude," said S.D.

"Speaking of her," said Em Cal. "I'm going to call her and make sure you shower. I'm going, see you."

"Hey, wait!" said S.D. "Ain't you gonna give me a ride? I don't have the right tools on me to boost a car."

Em Cal took S.D's left ear and pulled it hard.

"You ain't got those big ears for nothin', boy." he said. "Flap them and start flying home, Dumbo."

He got on his V-Rod and sped off, leaving S.D. in the alley, looking dumbfounded.


	5. Chapter 5

Em Cal didn't go home straight away. After sending V.K. McMahon the photo of Amarico's body followed by the info that Amarico had gave him prior to killing him, he headed straight to a bar he regularly attended called The Se7en Spades. He drank glass after glass of Jack and Coke, shot pool with a couple of bikers he was on good terms with, slapped a couple of girls on the bottom, and wiped the floor with a guy who foolishly picked a fight with him, trying to impress his girlfriend. All in all, it was a good night.

It was nearly dawn when Em Cal went home. He hopped into the shower. Then, he lit up a Winston and read several dime novels before falling asleep on the couch.

It was around the afternoon. Em Cal went to Dirty Dan's Diner, where he had 3 Italian beef sandwiches and multiple helpings of blueberry pie a la mode. He was in the middle of paying his bill when he spotted a corpulent, ruddy faced man, wearing a sweat suit, pushing an ice cream cart across the street from Dirty Dan's. That struck Em Cal odd. It was in the middle of winter, not the type of season to sell ice cream. Then again, there were nothing but odd balls in Titan City, and Em Cal nearly dismissed the man, when he took another glance at him, and a jolt of recognition hit him in his stomach. It was Pasquale Ferraioli, aka Paulie Knuckles , the under boss of the Saracino family.

Em Cal watched Paulie for a while. For the first five minutes, nothing happened. Then, a filthy shabby looking man walked up to the cart. Em Cal watched Paulie give the man something that didn't look a hell of a lot like a popsicle. Em Cal observed Paulie for a little longer. More people started coming up to the cart. Em noticed these customers were giving Paulie bills of 50 or 100, too much for some popsicles.

Em Cal decided that he's seen enough. When Paulie started to move up the street, he went outside and stalked him up the street. When he was close enough, he cleared his throat loudly. The minute Paulie recognized him, he looked as if he was going into cardiac arrest.

"Holy shit, Em Cal," he said, his double chins quivering. "Whatta you doin' around' here? I thought you were retired!"

"Relax you fat son of a bitch, no need to act all erratic," said Em Cal. "As for what I'm doing around here, that's none of your damn business."

He looked at the cart. It said Bravissimo's, with the letters colored like the Italian flag.

"In the ice cream business, huh?" he said. "How's that working out? I bet you're doing a better job at selling cheap flavored ice on a stick, than you do as a made man."

Paulie smiled, but there was nothing cheerful about it. It was more like open contempt.

"I'm a damn good seller. As a matter of fact, I'm making a fortune. Money has been flowing in the _three fold_."

Had Em Cal been a little less observant, he would have not heard the emphasis on the world, three fold. He kept his face impassive, and said with false airiness, "Glad to hear it. So, aren't you gonna offer me some of your product, Paulie?"

"Never thought my former enemy would be buying my merchandise." said Paulie with an arrogant smile that made Em Cal want to rip his head off. "You got the green?"

Em Cal pulled out a wad of 100 dollar bills.

"Whoa, that's not chump change, pal," said Paulie. "What're you doin' these days? You're not working for V.K. McMahon again are you?"

"Oh no, I'm retired for good," said Em Cal. "I'm into the singing business now."

"You? A Singer?" said Paulie disbelievingly. "What type of music do you specialize in?"

Em Cal's eyes were full of icy green laughter as he pulled out a Kimber Sapphire Ultra II and said in a low dangerous voice, "Doo Wop!"

Before Paulie could pull out his own gun, ten bullets entombed their selves in his chest and stomach. People screamed and scattered as the fat man hit the ground, blood effusing from his fatal wounds. Acting quickly, Em Cal, with every bit of strength it took him, dragged Paulie's body into a nearby alleyway, put it between two dumpsters, and took a picture with his cell phone, sending it to McMahon and leaving another message. Then, he went back to the ice cream cart, and opened it. Sure enough, bags of Triple Effect, this time in powder form in baggies and balloons, were inside the cart. There were actual popsicles inside, just incase someone really wanted one.

Em Cal took the bags of Triple Effect, and pocketed them. Then he got on his V-Rod, and went back to his apartment, where he flushed the Triple Effect down the toilet. He called S.D.'s house afterwards. After five rings, Angela's annoyed voice answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Angela, it's Em Cal, is your brother home?"

"Oh, hey," said Angela, abandoning the huffy tone. "Yes, he's here, hold on a second...SAVIERO!"

For a few seconds, Em Cal heard S.D. and Angela exchange several diatribes before S.D. came to the phone.

"Yo, Cal, what's up?" S.D. said with his usual way of greeting.

"S.D., has Saracino called your phone?" Em Cal asked.

"No," said S.D., "why?"

"Discard it," said Em Cal. "I think I may have found a lead on how the Saracino's are distributing the Triple Effect drugs," said Em Cal. "I just bumped off an under boss for the Saracinos he was selling Triple Effect in an ice cream cart."

"Oh yeah?" S.D. said interested, "what did the cart say?"

"Bravissimo's," Em Cal replied. "Do you know that name?"

"Bravissimo's an ice cream shop that opened up just last month," S.D. said. "I don't know the exact street it's on, I've never been there. But I can find out for you."

"Okay," said Em Cal who found it hard to say, 'thank you'. "You know how to contact me."

"Sure thing," said S.D., before hanging up.

As Em Cal waited for S.D. to give him some news, he realized that he was hungry again. He made himself two large hoagies, which he washed down with several bottles of Dog Fish beer. Then he lit up a Winston and watched _The Magnificent Seven_.

It was nightfall by the time S.D. called.

"Hey, Cal, hear this," he said. "There's a Bravissimo's Gelato and Italian Ice shop right on Gotti Avenue in the Little Italy section of Titan City."

"Good job, boy." said Em Cal. "Tomorrow, evening, we're going to check the place out, do a little stake out. I'll come to get you."

"Ok, sounds cool to me, dude," said S.D.

"So, did you do what I asked you to do last night?" Em Cal asked.

"Yeah," said S.D. "Got the steel, new clothes, and I gave Angela some money, because I know I'm a pain in the ass to her."

"Well, if that's all, see you tomorrow," said Em Cal, hanging up on S.D. He gathered up his V-Rod keys, and left the apartment. If he were to do this stakeout, he couldn't do it with the V-Rod. At 6'9, he was instantly impeccable. He couldn't risk being spotted in former enemy territory.

The V-Rod pulled up in front of a ranch style home and knocked on the door. A few minutes later, a tall old man with a grizzled stubbled face and trifocals answered.

"Hey Earl, how the hell are you?" Em Cal said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good son," said Earl in a voice that had been abused by years of chain smoking. "You here to pick her up?"

That's what Em Cal liked about Earl. He didn't care much for idol chit chat; he kept the greetings succinct.

"Sure am," said Em Cal, following the old man to an oak garage door.

"Kept her nice and polished for you," said Earl, opening the door up.

Inside was Em Cal's second ride, a triple black '71 Hemi Cuda with chrome wheels and a license plate saying 'Badass'. He'd bought it shortly after being employed by V.K. McMahon, but seldom drove it. It was too much of a liability (Not too many people owned a 'Cuda, especially one with a license that said Badass). He kept it hidden in Earl's garage, and took it out only on special occasions.

"Thanks for keeping her, Earl," said Em Cal, handing the old man three hundred dollars. "I'll be back to pick up the V-Rod in the morning."

As Earl departed, Em Cal felt the well polished hood and said. "Hey, sweetie, did you miss me?" He got inside and started up the engine. It roared like an angry lion.

"I know it's been awhile," he said, "but I'll be gentle."

He turned on the radio, which was playing, _Cowboys From Hell_ , and sped up the usually quiet streets, turning sharply around the corner.

The next night, Em Cal drove over to S.D.'s place in the 'Cuda. S.D. was waiting on the porch when he arrived. He was wearing an olive combat jacket over a white t-shirt, black jeans, and white Reebok hi-tops.

"Dude!" he exclaimed, getting in the 'Cuda. "This is one bitchin' ride!"

"Yeah, it's nice," said Em Cal, who didn't share S.D's enthusiasm. "You got your guns on you?"

S.D. took out a Walther P22 and a SIG Sauer P229. Em Cal nodded his head in approval.

"For once, you don't smell like 3 week old garbage," he said. "You're doin' good so far, boy."

"Thanks, I guess," said S.D. "So, what's the plan, boss?"

"You're going to go into Bravissimo's," said Em Cal. "Once you're there, you're going to ask for some Triple Effect."

"Why do I have to go in there?" asked S.D. "And why do I have to buy Triple Effect?"

"To confirm my suspicions, you fucking idiot!" Em Cal said impatiently. "And as I've told you before, I'm too familiar with the Saracinos, they'd instantly recognize me. They're not that familiar with you and vice versa. So they'd be less suspicious. Wake up boy, put that brain to use."

He slapped S.D. in the back of the head. S.D. yelped and said. "Hey man, what the fuck?! You ain't gonna keep hittin' me, man. I'm not one of Bing Crosby's kids."

"Shut the fuck up," Em Cal said.

Bravissimo's was located between a Laundromat, and a sporting goods store It had an awning the colors of the Italian flag, and had in big letters of the same color, BRAVISSIMO'S GELATO AND ITALIAN ICE, painted on the glass window.

Em Cal parked the 'Cuda across the street from Bravissimo's. He then turned off the car and said to S.D. "Alright boy, you mission objective is simple. Go in there and see if they're selling Triple Effect. You blow this for us and I'll send a bullet so far up your ass, they're going to find samples of lead in your urine. You got it?"

"Yes, sir, I got it," said S.D. Em Cal heard a dollop of resentment in his voice. He probably was still upset about getting slapped in the back of the head.

"Alright, keep your guns loaded and get your ass out of here," said Em Cal bluntly.

Without a word, S.D. left the car. Em Cal lit up a Winston and called V.K. McMahon's phone. when he got the answering machine, he left a message.

"McMahon, this is Em Cal again. I'm calling to let you know I'm scouting out that place I text you about yesterday. You'll be hearing from me again if something develops."

S.D. took too long inside Bravissimo's. After his fifth Winston, Em Cal pulled out his .460 Ruger and proceeded to go inside himself, when he saw S.D. running back across the street, carrying a cup of gelato in his hand.

"Sorry I took so long," he said. "That place is packed.

"That's all nice," said Em Cal with a touch of impatience in his voice, "but I asked you to get Triple Effect, not buy ice cream.'

"I'm getting to that, Cal, chill out," said S.D. "It's inside the gelato, in powder form. That's why there were so many customers. They're ordering gelatos with 'the magic powder'. That's what I heard them request. I figured they were just talking about cocoa dust, until I saw one cat pay eighty bucks for the gelato. I paid a hundred and twenty for extra Triple Effect powder in this."

"Good job," said Em Cal. You can throw that shit away, now."

S.D. obediently tossed the Triple Effect tainted gelato out of the window.

And I think I saw a storage room full of Triple Effect." he said. "When one of the workers went inside the storage room, I saw those pill bottles Amarico had. Just got a quick glimpse of them."

Em Cal stood quiet for several minutes. He was thinking of what to do next, when he saw an ice cream truck pull up next to Bravissimo's. Tapping S.D., he continued to watch the truck. Pretty soon, two guys whom Em Cal knew were henchmen of the Saracino family, appeared from the van, carrying two large suitcase. They went inside Bravissimo's.

"That's the money they made from the Triple Effect, I bet," muttered Em Cal.

"No doubt," said S.D. "We should go in there and open their chest right now, Cal,"

"No, not this time, kid," said Em Cal. "At least not yet. I've already killed two men involved in the Triple Effect drug ring, it's too much of a coincidence to be random killings. Johnny might be a tad suspicious about those deaths if he hasn't already found out. We kill those two sorry asses now, Johnny will _know_ somebody's on to his operation."

"So, what do we do?" S.D. asked.

"Start planning, boy," said Em Cal. "I have a feeling that this operation stretches beyond this ice cream shop here. We're going to come back here tomorrow. I think we should tail that van, see where it goes. And Bravissimo's, this place is going to burn. Maybe not tonight, but I'll be sure that it'll be reduced to charred cinder."

"I know a couple of arsonists who owe me a favor," said S.D. "I'll ring them up and wait for your clearance."

"Yeah, you do that," said Em Cal. "Well, I'm hungry, have you eaten?"

"No," said S.D. "Angela locks her refrigerator and tells me that the food's only for people who don't sit on their ass, getting high, all day."

"Where you wanna go?" Em Cal asked

"I do have a taste for chicken fajita wraps from The Crazy Clucker." said S.D.

"Crazy Clucker, it is," said Em Cal, starting up the engine again. "You know you're paying right?"


	6. Chapter 6

For a few days, Em Cal and S.D. stalked the ice cream vans. Using different cars, they learned the daily routine of the vans and what time they stopped distributing the Triple Effect. The vans would then head back to Diamondback Desert to an old two level factory that used to make Cherry Bomb Cola sodas before they discontinued it. Em Cal discovered that they were using the factory to create Triple Effect pills. The factory was surrounded by iron gates that only opened for the ice cream van.

Meanwhile, the deaths of Amarico Villapando and Paulie Knuckles spread like wildfire throughout the underworld. Em Cal knew that he couldn't waste anymore time with this operation. There was a plethora of witnesses who could identify him on both occasions. So on a busy Friday evening, Em Cal called S.D. and told him to get ready. He sank several shots of Jack Daniels, lit up a Winston and readied himself for battle. He slipped on his leather duster and sunglasses. He armed himself with a .50 Desert Eagle, two silenced Uzi submachine guns, and a sawed off 12 gauge. It was dead quiet as Em Cal mounted the V-Rod. He did not feel nervous. He had saw and done so much murder, that his mundane human emotions were virtually non existent.

S.D. was waiting for Em Cal. In contrast to Em Cal, who was cool, calm, and collective, he looked as if he just recovered from food poisoning; he was pale, sweaty, and slightly shaky. His expression was more far out than usual.

"Hey, whatever nervous feeling you have, you better get rid of them boy," said Em Cal coldly. "You agreed to do this, so if you freeze up on me, or back out of this, you might as well sign your death certificate."

"Cal, I won't turn on you," said S.D., I'm down, I swear I am."

Em Cal heard the sincerity in his voice and said. "Good, we're about to put Operation Camisado in motion. Have you taken care of what I told you to take care of?"

"Yeah," said S.D. "I called an hour ago. Bravissimo's should be down in flames by now."

"Good," said Em Cal. "It's ten-fifteen, which means that one of the ice cream vans will be headed toward Barrow and Parker Freeway by now. Let's see if we can catch up with it."

"For the first ten minutes, Em Cal did not see any ice cream van on Barrow and Parker. He sped up the Escobar Bridge and searched far and wide for it. He didn't find any van, until he spotted the ice cream van with the discernible Bravissimo's logo on it, taking the ramp at Manson Parkway. Like a lion stalking a gazelle, Em Cal went after his prey.

"When I say when!" Em Cal shouted at S.D. over to the V-Rod's roar, "you're going to jump onto the van and get inside. I'm going to match the truck's speed!"

" _WHAT_?!" S.D. exclaimed. "You want me to jump off of this bike and onto that van? Do I look like a leap frog to you?"

"You look like a guy who's going to get my foot shoved up his ass, if he doesn't jump!" said Em Cal. "Now stop whining and get ready!"

"If I die, man, tell Angela I love her, no matter what I've said!" said S.D.

Em Cal pulled up to the left side of the ice cream van. S.D. positioned himself to get ready to jump. When Em Cal got close enough to the van, he shouted, "GO!"

The guy driving the van had no idea what had happened until S.D. made a Spiderman-like leap off of the V-Rod and onto the van, smashing the window with a Beretta. Em Cal watched the van veer off course, as the van's driver and S.D struggled for the wheel. After three grueling minutes, S.D. shot the driver four times and pushed his body out of the van. He then pulled the van to a complete stop. Em Cal hopped off of the V-Rod.

"I'll be back," he said to the V-Rod. He got inside the van, where he found S.D. in the back, going through the freezers.

"Man, it looks like Lindsey Lohan's stash back here." he said. "Hey Cal! There's 50 Gs back here, man!"

"S.D., stop fucking off and get in the front." said Em Cal patiently. "I need you to take the wheel."

S.D. obediently got into the driver's seat, waving a popsicle at Em Cal.

"Hyper Stripes," he said with a 6 year-old's enthusiasm. "I love these man!"

Em Cal slapped the popsicle out of S.D.'s hand and said. "Just drive the van. Dammit, boy!"

The sun was starting to set over Diamondback Desert. Em Cal loaded the 12 gauge up and said to S.D. "Now there's guards watching the gates and they're armed. The window's broken, so if they see that we're not their regular driver, they'll probably shoot on sight, so have the guns at the ready."

"Got you, boss," said S.D.

They arrived at the factory. Two of Saracino's gorillas were at the gate, armed with assault rifles. As they let the van in, Em Cal and S.D. waited until they were at level with the goons and clapped iron on them. Then they parked the van with the other vans.

"We're entering a world full of peril now," said Em Cal, cocking the sawed off. "Keep those guns, loaded, boy,"

"Say, Cal, started S.D., loading up his SIG, "when're you gong to stop calling me boy?"

Em Cal's icy viriscent eyes met S.D.'s dim hazel ones.

"When you stop acting like one, _boy_ ," he said.

Both men walked to the main entrance. Em Cal aimed the sawed off shotgun at the door and shot it down. There were voices of surprise issuing from the factory.

"Who was that?" said a voice Em Cal recognized as Joey Albertelli, the capo for the Saracinos.

"It's Death, coming to claim your soul, grease ball!" said Em Cal truculently, sending shells flying into Albertelli's chest.

Em Cal and S.D. ran into the factory, ready to kill anything moving. But Saracino's men, who were anticipating an ambush, were ready as well. Em Cal's voice was something like a war call.

Saracino's goons charged at the two intruders. S.D fired the Beretta at the first goon, getting him in the legs. He fell with a scream. Em Cal blasted a few more with the sawed off and crouched behind cardboard boxes, avoiding more shots.

"Cal!" S.D. half shouted, half whispered. "I'm taking cover!"

Before Em Cal could stop him, S.D. turned the corner and started firing away. Em Cal put his sawed off back in his pocket and got out of the two silenced Uzis. Then he ran after S.D., who was crouched behind two large crates, only emerging to shoot at the three goons he was battling with.

"Move, S.D., I got you!" yelled Em Cal, riddling the goons with a fusillade of bullets spitting from the Uzis.

"That's my dude!" said S.D. with glee. He jumped on top of the crates and started shooting blindly. While he got one goon, he also missed the others, but hit tables full of Bunsen burners and stacks of money, sending glass and money flying everhwhere.

"Dammit boy, stop fucking off and get a good shot!" shouted Em Cal. While yelling, he hadn't noticed a large wiry haired man coming toward him. He tackled Em Cal from the back, knocking the Uzis out of his hand. The fat man and Em Cal rolled around on the floor, punching and struggling. The fat man trying to keep Em Cal from getting his guns. Em Cal finally got on top of the fat man, then wrapped his large hand around his short thick neck, depraving him of his oxygen. Then, he took out the .50 Desert Eagle, stuck it in his mouth and pulled the trigger, causing the fat man's skull and brains to splatter everywhere. Wiping his blood and the fat man's blood from his face, Em Cal got to his feet and retained his Uzis.

There were only two men left now, but they were still fighting fiercly. Catching up with S.D, he looked at him and muttered. "Let's take it home."

S.D. nodded and along with Em Cal, sent the last of them on a one way trip to Hell.

Em Cal and S.D. looked at the carnage. Blood, bodies, money, glass, and drugs carpeted the floor. Em Cal examined the bodies. None of them were Johnny Saracino's.

"I know he's here," said Em Cal. "If he's anything like his old man, he's going to be in the thick of-"

Em Cal was cut off by the sound of two gun shots being fired. The next thing he knew, S.D. was on the ground, yelling, clutching at his bleeding arm. Em Cal spun around and saw from the top of the stairwell, a young man with slightly tanned skin, a smart nose, and heavily gelled hair, stood, holding a P89 Ruger. Furious, Em Cal fired a shot at him, but missed. He smirked and ran off.

"Ahhhh, fuck," S.D. groaned. It hurts, man, it fucking hurts."

"Shut up, boy," said Em Cal, taking out a strip of cloth and tying it tightly around S.D.'s arm. "That's all I can do for you for now. I'm going to kill that little fucking weasel."

"Yeah," gasped S.D. "Shoot that mother fucker, Cal."

Em Cal took off, and with great agility for a man his size, ran up the stairs, looking for Johnny Saracino. He was several feet away from him when he fired several shots at Em Cal. Em Cal answered back with two shots that missed Johnny by the skin of his teeth. Letting out an inarticulate yell of frustration, he pursued Johnny, who heading toward a door that led to the top of the roof.

When Em Cal finally reached the roof, Saracino was trying to jump off of it and into some dumpsters. Em Cal fired the Desert Eagle once more and struck gold. The bullet embedded itself in the small of Johnny's back.

The sky was now a deep lapis lazuli. Like the predator that he was, Em Cal sauntered toward Johnny, who was gasping and moaning, unable to move. Em Cal kicked him over so he could face him. He picked up the P89 and threw it far away.

"You done got me pissed off now, boy," said Em Cal, his voice harsher than usual. "You made me run after you, and then you make me waste bullets on your sorry ass. I could kill you right now, and not think nothing of it, but I won't, not just yet. Did you come up with the idea of the Triple Effect or is someone else pulling your strings? ANSWER ME!"

"It was me, all me," Johnny groaned. "Our family was crumbling before my very eyes. And there was people talking, saying I was doin' a shit job, that I would never been as good as my pop. I had to prove them wrong, I had to do something. So I came up with the idea of creating a unique drug that would not only bring in a lot of money, but put the family back on top of the food chain. And I did just that. My empire's big. Bigger than my father ever made it, bigger than V.K. McMahon's ever was. Nobody can touch me, _nobody_!"

"That's where I come in to contradict you, boy." said Em Cal. "Y'see, I killed your correspondent, Amarico Villapando, that fat greasy meatball, Paulie Knuckles, your precious little ice cream shop is burning as we speak, and I just wiped out all of your men. And here you are, on this roof, a millisecond away from being killed by one of the most cold blooded, dangerous son of a bitches to ever walk this earth. You should be honored, boy; Many men greater than you have died by my hand. Any last words?"

"Fuck you!" Johnny Saracino shouted, his face defiant. But Em Cal knew it was all a facade. Deep down, he was terrified, he could see the fear in his blue eyes.

"Y'know, Johnny, you look a lot like your pop," said Em Cal. "But you ain't a bit like him. Right before I killed him, he embraced the fact that I was going to kill him, he was not afraid to die. Look at you, lip twitching, eyes wide like a deer's. You don't really wanna die, do you? Let me put you out of your misery. How do you Sicilians say it? _Arrivederci_!"

He unloaded the Desert Eagle into Johnny Saracino's body. Johnny's eyes stared without seeing. Em Cal stared down at the body, uncaring, as he took out his phone and took a picture. Then, he walked back downstairs, the moonlight illuminating the rugged, apathetic features of his.


	7. Chapter 7

S.D. was still in the same spot where Em Cal had left him, still moaning, clutching his bloody arm.

"Get your sorry ass up, boy," snapped Em Cal. "You're not dying!"

S.D. obediently got to his feet, but let out a yelp as he used his wounded arm to get up.

"I take it that you got him," said S.D.

"Yeah," said Em Cal, "but I ain't done yet. "You see those chemical containers?"

S.D. nodded.

"Find something flammable," said Em Cal. "I'm burning this goddamn place down."

"You expect me to find something with this arm?" S.D. groaned.

"You have one good arm and two legs," snarled Em Cal. "Now do what I say, before you have more bullets in you!"

He took out one of his Uzis and pointed it at S.D. S.D. sucked his teeth and muttered, "What crawled up your ass and died?"

Em Cal took out his phone and called V.K. McMahon. The phone rang three times before McMahon picked up.

"Yes?"

"This is me," said Em Cal. "Just wanna let you know it's over. Johnny Saracino and his business just went belly up."

"That is the best news I've heard this week," said McMahon happily. "You've done me proud, Em Cal."

"Glad to hear it," said Em Cal. "I'm still at the factory, but it won't be up for long. I'm going to burn it, make sure nobody ever uses this factory again.

"You sure know how to cover all of the bases, don't you?" said McMahon, impressed. "What time do you want me to be at the apartment for the payoff?"

"In an hour," said Em Cal. "I'll see you then."

S.D. reappeared with gasoline.

"What now?" he asked

"Leave a trail from the chemical containers and light the gas trail up." said Em Cal. "I'm going to get the truck ready."

Lighting up a Winston, Em Cal handed his zippo lighter to S.D. and walked back outside to start up the ice cream van. A minute later, S.D. came hurtling out of the factory and into the van. Em Cal stepped on the pedal and not a moment too soon. There was a sonic boom. Em Cal looked in the side mirror. Angry flames were reaching toward the sky already.

"That's that," said Em Cal. He looked at S.D. and added, "Don't worry about the wounds, kid. I can take it out once we get to my place."

"The sooner the better," muttered S.D. "I'm going to help myself to popsicles and that 50 Gs."

Em Cal let out a short exasperated noise. The boy had two bullets in his arm, and all he could think about were stupid popsicles.

"Em Cal, I cannot thank you enough," said V.K. McMahon at Em Ca's apartment. "I knew I made the right decision when I asked you to handle this Triple Effect mess for me. I said your payoff would be one with a plethora of zeros if you did this for me. I am a man of my word, here's your cut, big guy, five million dollars."

He opened up the suitcase he was holding, revealing used 20s and 50s. Em Cal took the suitcase without saying thanks.

"How would you like to work for me, full time again?" McMahon asked.

Em Cal shook his head and said. "I appreciate the offer, McMahon, but I'm retired, I vowed to never go back again, I keep my word."

"One can respect that," said McMahon. "But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

He and Em Cal shook hands. Then McMahon gathered up his trench coat and looked at S.D., who was wrapping up his wounds.

"Take care of those wounds, son," he said and walked out of the door.

"Listen boy," Em Cal said. "It would be wrong for me to have you leave here, empty handed. You helped me out a lot and I don't forget those who help me. So, I'm going to add on to the fifty thousand you found in that van. How's five hundred thousand sound?"

"I would yell for joy, if I hadn't spend a quarter of an hour yelling when you were removing the bullets," said S.D. "500 Gs? Who needs lottery tickets when I got you, Cal?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Em Cal, handing S.D. the money. "It's time for you to leave. Dump the van when you get the chance. And be sure to clean the wounds regularly."

"Alright," said S.D. pocketing the money. "Thanks, man, nobody's ever given me anything."

"No problem, kid," Em Cal said. "Now for the last time, get lost."

"Alright, I'm gone," said S.D, shutting the door behind him.

"At last," said Em Cal. He was alone and things would go back to the way the were before V.K. McMahon came to him several days ago. He was going to invest in the money McMahon gave him. He would buy the Se7en Spades, so Lester, it's current owner could retire. He would go out to the casinos and gamble some of his money away. But until then, there was one thing that he wanted to do; Get a good night's sleep.

 **The End**


End file.
